


dreamcatchers

by piecesofgold



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:35:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21821542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piecesofgold/pseuds/piecesofgold
Summary: It’s one thing to be able to fight for yourself; it’s quite another to have someone willing to fightbesideyou.
Relationships: Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 62





	dreamcatchers

**Author's Note:**

> last fic of the year folks! and it's not titans?!
> 
> wrote this after having the anastasia broadway album playing on a loop for three days straight and being emotionally ruined post watching a bootleg. christy altomare and derek klena i love u.
> 
> btw if anyone has any musical theatre recs please drop em in the comments because i feel like i'm overdue immerseing myself in them.
> 
> (i do feel a bit odd weird writing a fic of...a historical figure. but. broadway, i guess. i feel this is a bit ooc but i tried ?? this is never happening again lmao.)
> 
> enjoy!

If Dmitry squashing her hadn’t woken her up, his snoring would have.

Anya squirms, trapped between her husbands lanky sleeping frame, a quilt and the mattress. Dmitry is snoring something fierce, the way he only ever does when he’s been drinking, his face is pressed into her loose hair on the pillow. He’s fully dressed, and Anya vaguely recalls being woken up in the middle of the night by him stumbling into the apartment after his night with Vlad. She doesn’t know how she slept through him quite literally falling on top of her, though.

She tries to move again - nope, still trapped. Curse her short genes.

“Dima,” Anya mumbles into his cheek, shadow of a beard rubbing against her face. “Get off me.”

No response.

“Dima,” she tries again, wriggling her hands out. “ _Dmitry_.” She pokes him in the ribs, hard.

Finally, he groans. “Stop yelling at me.”

Anya bites her lip to keep from laughing, bumps her nose against his. “I’m not. Let me up, you oaf.”

Dmitry does the opposite, curls up and clings to her tighter, clearly fighting a smile. Anya does laugh then, tries feebly to shove him off to no avail.

“Dmitry, let me off this bed immediately or I will sing _Can You Feel The Love Tonight_ as out of tune as possible,” she threatens.

“You sing out of tune, anyway.”

“Dima, please.” She sticks her bottom lip out haughtily, knowing the effect it has on him.

Groaning dramatically, Dmitry releases her, and Anya scrambles up before he can pull her back towards him. “Won’t you have pity on your poor hungover husband, princess?”

“I will pity him when he stops smelling of vodka.” Anya slips on a dressing gown, bemusedly watching Dmitry struggle to sit up. “Eventful night, I take it?”

Dmitry grumbles, rubbing his eyes. “I’m never drinking with Vlad again.”

“You said that last time, darling.”

“This time I mean it!” He calls to her retreating form.

“Mmhmm,” Anya hums, not needing to turn around to know Dmitry is rolling his eyes.

While Dmitry showers, Anya scrolls through work emails with a coffee in hand. She decidedly ignores the one from Gleb, knowing it will be another one accusing her of plagiarism. She’ll fight that battle on Monday morning.

There’s an anxious message from her mother about Alexei’s high school graduation, to which Anya responds with a reassuring _Yes, mama, Dima and I will be there. It’s Olga you should be worried about._

Dmitry pads back in, making his presence known with a kiss on Anya’s head. He rests his chin there, reading her tablet. “Ah, and what do the Royal Family want of us?”

“You’re still calling them that, after what happened with Papa last time?” Anya tilts her head back to look up at him.

He shrugs, half smiling. “Your sisters found it funny.”

“My father tried to have you removed from the house!”

“But he _didn’t_.”

Anya shakes her head in disbelief. “You have no sense of self-preservation, Dima.”

“But would life be as fun?” Dmitry grins, leaning down to kiss her.

Anya’s phone chooses that exact moment to begin ringing.

“Ignore it,” he suggests against Anya’s lips. She glances at it anyway, groaning internally.

“‘Fraid not,” she sighs. “It’s Maria.” Her sisters make the list of calls Anya absolutely cannot ignore. “Good morning, Masha.”

“You’re the worst,” Dmitry says, loud enough for Maria to hear.

On the end, Maria laughs. “Tell Dmitry he’s terrible,” she suggests. Anya relays the message to him, and he rolls his eyes, turning to the coffee maker.

“What’s up?”

“Making sure you know not to be late tomorrow.”

“To...morrow?” Anya frowns at Dmitry, who shrugs.

 _"Yes,_ Natsya, tomorrow.” Maria’s exasperation is evident, and Anya just knows she’s never going to hear the end of this. “Dinner, remember?”

“Oh!” Anya quickly mouths _dinner_ at Dmitry, and he probably looks as stricken as she feels remembering making those plans. “Dinner, yes, of course.”

Maria mutters something in Russian under her breath. “You two, honestly. Brains of a sieve.”

“I’m sorry, Masha,” Anya says gently. “It’s been a long week. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You better!”

“When did we make dinner plans with your sister?” Dmitry sounds genuinely confused.

“Somewhere between my fifth and sixth cocktail last week, I think. While you were trying to beat Tatiana at pool.”

Dmitry tilts his head. “And when you tried to fight that guy three times the size of you.”

“Did you _hear_ what he said to me?” Anya’s still annoyed Dmitry had physically held her back, never mind how tipsy she was.

“Why do you think I broke his nose when the girls got you out?”

 _Oh_. So that’s why the guy had a bloody nose when she’d seen him later.

“I could have taken him,” she says softly, a _thank you_ and an _I love you_ all at once.

Dmitry expression is soft, walking over and bending down to press a kiss to her forehead. “I know. But I wanted to.” _Always. I love you, too._ His hand brushes over her hair and settles on her cheek, and looking at him Anya remembers why she married him in the first place, why she loves him despite the bickering and merciless (and, she’ll admit, deserved) mocking of her parents.

It’s one thing to be able to fight for yourself; it’s quite another to have someone willing to fight _beside_ you.

Maria had put it best in her toast at their wedding, Anya thinks. “You are both the most bullheaded, stubborn and argumentative people I have ever met,” she had declared, champagne glass raised. “And yet you are so devoted and loving to each other it is nauseating to see.” Dmitry had teared up so much Vlad dropped a napkin on his face to save them all the embarrassment.

There’s an _I love you_ on the tip of Anya’s tongue, right now, not hidden behind other words, when Dmitry suddenly says, “Do you want waffles? I really want waffles.”

It startles a giggle out of her. “We have waffles?”

“We have a waffle _iron_ , right? The mix can’t be that hard to make.” He’s out of the chair, rummaging through the cupboards for ingredients.

Because it’s them, it’s a natural disaster; Dmitry anxiously holds Anya up by her waist when she stands on the counter looking for Lily’s old waffle iron, insisting she’s _fine, Dima, I’m not going to fall_ , the bag of flour splits and spills all over Anya, they don’t have nearly enough eggs, and when they bother to Google ingredients find they don’t have any baking powder, either.

Anya throws a handful of flour into her husbands scowling face, giddy. “What now, genius?”

She takes delight in Dmitry’s defeated reply. “Postmates.”

(They don’t need to say _I love you_ out loud all the time; he lets her know by making a cup of tea the way she likes it, cleaning her flour-covered clothes without being asked, giving her the other half of his bagel because he never finishes a full one, anyway.

She tells him by wiping the flour off his face, tucking herself underneath his chin because she knows he loves how small she is against him, fingers gently touching across the dining table between the brief intervals of work typing.

Later, she will breathe the words into his collarbone, sleepy and sated, and he will repeat them into her hair.

It’s not always about the words. They have their actions. They have time.)

**Author's Note:**

> happy hanukkah / merry christmas / happy new year / happy holidays, friends. thank you for being wonderful readers. i hope 2020 is a kind year to you all 💕


End file.
